Learned Helplessness
by hopsjollyhigh
Summary: Erik has done a great deal of harm in the past day, and a hurt Daroga demands to know why. Persia-era, pre-established Erik/Daroga relationship, cw for drug use and some reasonably graphic violence.


_A/N: Please be aware of content warnings for drug abuse and graphic violence. And as always, please review if you enjoy it! Reviews fuel more content, and this is a universe I'd like to explore more. Same universe as His Hair; you do not need to read one to understand the other._

I had come to expect him most nights he stayed at my estate. I wasn't sure whether to expect him on _that_ night, but there he was, assassin and magician, the khanum's grotesque attack dog, staring at me with wide, wilting eyes that begged in a way that I wasn't certain his voice was capable of. Shrinking and anxious, a wallflower in my presence, hovering around the door with a murmur caught in his mouth, a request to cross the threshold into my room.

The visits were routine. Erik's demeanor was not. He was always anxious, always waited for me to take the lead, but there was _dread_ here this time, and the churning feeling in my gut, residual anger and pain, kept me from exercising compassion for his fear. I wanted him to wait it out a bit. I leaned over to my nightstand and turned up the lamp; the new light in the room cast that eerie glow to his eyes. The word around court was that his eyes shone yellow in the dark, but I had come to find out that they needed some small light present to truly glow. That night, though, Erik couldn't make eye contact with me, and he cast his eyes down at the ground as I stared back at him.

In the quiet space between midnight and dawn, we were uncertain what we had become. It was only in the deep night, only when we were both certain that nobody could see. We couldn't name it and never tried to, not in those days, so full of bloodshed and turmoil. We had the nights, and we never dared to speak about it, not even to figure out what exactly it _was._ I had grown familiar with the tentative way he always touched me- always _questioning,_ in both the slowness of his action and in words murmured so quietly that even I could hardly hear them, even as I shared the same bed as him. In this respect, he was gentle- some would say uncharacteristically gentle, but over the days, and weeks that it went on, I began to wonder which side of him _was_ the uncharacteristic one.

His actions earlier that day had pointed my thoughts back in the opposite direction. I can't say how long we looked at each other like that, tense and uncertain with only the dim lamplight and the moonbeams coming in from my high windows between us; finally, I spoke.

"Sit. Bolt the door behind you," I said. "I trust you locked _your_ door, as well?"

He nodded and obeyed my instructions, seemingly relieved to have something to do- anything to focus on other than his own fear. I meant to bite my tongue, but a scathing remark bubbled up in my throat, and I found myself lashing the words at him. "To say _trust-_ I must be a fool, mustn't I? After today, a wiser man would assume you'd thrown caution to the wind, never mind the consequences- never mind _my_ opinion on it…"

"Daroga, please," he whispered, and his voice was so wretched, so torn, that it made his posture seem positively confident. He sank in the chair across from my bed and gripped the armrests tight; I could see now that he moved further into the lamplight that his hands were trembling, and the determined, righteous anger in me began to unravel. His obvious frailty broke away the layers I'd built around my own confusion and hurt, and in spite of everything, I found myself wanting to reach for him.

I wasn't broken down _enough,_ though. Not enough to reach for him after his actions- not until I understood them. There was only one hopeless syllable I could bring to fruition.

" _Why?"_

"Oh, Daroga," he murmurs, so softly that it could almost be to himself, "I wish I knew, if I could make it end… it's going to get worse, Daroga," he said, and he was standing now, pacing back and forth in front of my bed. He had pulled out a pipe; he held it in one hand while digging for something in his pocket with the other, his movements increasingly desperate. "I've made a mistake, Daroga, even coming here- more than one mistake! _Damn it,_ opium, I know I had some- you have none in here?"

It was my turn to be anxious. His raving was frantic; all I could do was shake my head. I was climbing out of bed, setting my feet on the ground to make my way over to him and stop his pacing, but he sank down in the chair again before I could even stand, letting the pipe fall out of his hand and onto the ground. His masked face fell into his hands, and I could barely hear him groaning through them.

"Oh, Daroga… my _head…_ if it would just _quiet down_ for a moment…"

The room was utterly silent, other than him speaking. Just as he had lowered his head into his hands, he tilted it back, leaning as far as he could against the cushions so that he was gazing at the ceiling, into nothing. Every move he made was frantic, and punctuated by trembling; his hands gripped his knees now, the knuckles already turning white. Once his fear had broken, once I had _allowed him in,_ he had begun coming apart. I had seen him in certain states of agitation before, but never like this, so wandering and nonsensical. So confused, and _frightened._ I stood and took a few cautious steps towards him, hands out as though I were soothing a wild animal.

"Can you breathe? I need you here, Erik. Here, look at me. You can breathe for a few minutes, and then you can explain." I hadn't intended on being patient with him that night. It had been my turn to be angry, to shout and accuse and demand answers. It wasn't characteristic of me, though. I could not look at a suffering person and shout at them. I couldn't look at _him_ and not _care_ for him, however many wrongs he had done me. I set my hand on top of one of his and he flipped his own over, so our palms met, and grasped my hand with iron-tight ferocity. I set my jaw and made no protest. I could see the rise and fall of his concave chest, and with two fingers extended towards his wrist, I felt his pulse- too fast. I frowned, took his other hand, and gently tugged.

"We should both sit down. Will you come sit next to me? Will you have something to drink?"

He stood without resisting, and I brought him over to the bed, where there was enough space for us to sit next to each other. He was silent still, and trembling still, and it was nothing like it had been that afternoon. This was not the Erik that I was angry at.

I had never seen the Erik that I was angry at before that afternoon, and I prayed I would never see him again. He had come for me from across the gardens, utterly _locked_ on me- he had walked straight through flowerbeds, and there was a frightening intensity in his presence that I supposed must be how most people felt around him all the time. His mask was off, which, despite my familiarity with his grotesque features, was alarming for the simple fact that he was _in public without it._ Even before he reached me, I had been confused; I had shrunk away from him, and once he was in earshot, started to ask- "Erik, what-"

He had seized me by the jaw, cutting me off before I could ask any questions. He had stared at me with strange eyes, eyes that I didn't recognize, somehow as hazy and dull as they were laser-focused. I knew he was strong, knew he was a killer, but I had never felt the same fear as other people around him. I had never imagined him turning on me, never pictured what it would be like for those long hands to lock onto me with vicious intention. The nature of our relationship was a life-threatening secret; we hardly _looked_ at one another in court, never spoke with any affection outside of his apartments or my estate. Neither of us was bold enough to say what we were, but I knew the tenderness in his heart. I had not anticipated being a victim of his violence, as well.

He had dragged me closer to him, still holding me by the jaw with a cold, dead hand. His clothes were too dark for me to have noticed across the gardens, but I could smell the blood on him- I could see the texture of it drying on his shirt, and, overwhelmed, I had tried to cry out with a wordless fear.

He had kissed me, then. It was rare, even alone- and the _way_ he kissed me was wrong, it wasn't _him._ He was almost _angry,_ relentless and unfeeling, and his mouth tasted like blood; my hands scrambled to push him away. In a burst of adrenaline, I had pushed my head forward and driven my shoulder into his chest. His hand let go, and he had fallen over backwards- he was _laughing_ even as his head struck the ground, and I had run from him, praying against all hope that the garden had been as empty as it seemed. Far enough away, I had vomited into a sink from the taste of blood on my own tongue, and I had not seen him for the rest of the day.

And now he showed up at my quarters, an absolute wreck, and what could I do other than take care of him? With every step, the logical part of my mind told me to _send him away._ I couldn't bring myself to do it. He sat on the edge of my bed, and in the dim light, I could see tears gathering in his eyes as he stared at the floor.

"Can you tell me where you are?" I asked cautiously.

"Yes," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. "That's not the problem-"

"Could you tell me anyway?" I pressed. Being- whatever I was with him- it was not a simple relationship. There were no instructions for how to handle a man with so much confusion and turmoil inside of him. Even getting him to acknowledge the room he was in could help bring him back from wherever his mind went sometimes, when he became suddenly afraid, or when he seemed to not recognize me.

"Your room, Daroga. I know your room. I know _you-_ it's myself I don't know. They gave me something today, Daroga. What it was… they didn't tell me. The khanum took it in front of me, to show me it was safe- and they ordered me to- I didn't know what it would _do,"_ he groaned, leaning over with his arms crossed over his stomach. He clenched his eyes shut for a moment. "I wasn't prepared for it, but to say no- it wasn't an option. _Clearly._ I would be killed for disobedience of such a direct order, I _had to._ It was a powder, something new and rare, the sort of thing that _only_ the court gets. They told me to hold it in my mouth, and I did, and I was- _lost,_ Daroga. I couldn't keep still. I was pacing, almost immediately- oh, Daroga, _my mind was on fire._ I think I was laughing? Everything is in pictures, it's not clear, but I couldn't see straight. I thought my skin was moving." He stopped talking to swallow, and I got up automatically; I didn't dare say anything- I needed to know the rest of the story- but I drifted to my bedside table and back, bringing him a glass of water which he drained in seconds. He stared emptily for another few moments, and resumed speaking, his voice taking on an almost mechanical quality.

"This pleased the khanum. She wanted to see what I was capable of, so. There was a scheduled execution. One small ring, with a knife in the middle- just one. And all of that energy, Daroga, I know he hit me, I know I have bruises, but I was outside of a world where pain existed. I got to the knife, I picked it up, and I _threw_ it- I threw it out of the ring, and Daroga, I didn't kill that man. _I tore that man apart._ And the world in my head went so quiet while I did it- I don't know if anyone made any sound, I could only hear bones breaking- I wasn't even an animal at that point, Daroga. Animals _stop_ after their prey dies; I was a machine made for nothing but killing. I became _exactly_ what the khanum has wanted me to be- she _loved_ it. I don't know how long it went on. Two guards pushed me away with shields, and I only remember lying on my back. The body was unrecognizable. They dragged it away and I was just… lying there. I thought I knew what power felt like before, but lying in the dirt there… lying in the blood and dirt, I remember thinking, no man or God or anything on this planet could possibly kill me. I thought I had become immortal, for at least a few minutes- and when I sat up, everyone was gone. I must have laid there for some time, and I had been boring, just lying there. I thought- I could make other people immortal, maybe- and I rinsed the blood off my hands, and I found you… it didn't make sense, I just…"

He covered his face with his hands, shoulders trembling, and I sat in stunned silence. _What was this thing?_ Clearly some kind of drug, but I'd never heard of such a reaction. I was guiltily grateful that I had not seen the execution- the attack- play out; I had only seen and smelled- and _tasted,_ I thought, with revulsion- the blood on him. I went pale; I could have vomited again at the thought of it, but I took a steadying breath to calm my queasiness. The idea of forgiving that easily felt weak, but what else was there to do? He was back to the man I knew. His confusion and anguish were familiar to me, and the very fact of his despair tore into my heart- those eyes had not been his eyes. I couldn't look at him yet, but stared at the floor with only the loosest sense of what to even begin to say to him.

"You can't take it again," I said, my mouth dry.

Erik's voice was muffled behind his hands. "They will _make me,_ Daroga. Do you think they're above holding me down…? They want me to do this to people. And you- what I've done to you... Maybe it's too rare… maybe they don't have any more..." he trailed off, and his voice had become a whimper, and I could hear a sob in his throat that he had managed to keep from emerging as he let his hands fall away from his face.

I had no answer for him, of course. We were utterly powerless in this- and in so many other things. I lifted my gaze from the floor and settled on his hands, which gripped his knees tight enough that the skin was paper-white. I wanted to cry, too. I wanted to beat my fists against the walls and lament the unfairness of it all, but if I came apart, he _certainly_ would. All I had the power to do was hold him together.

I wondered what the khanum would think of her assassin now, sitting on the edge of my bed, seeking forgiveness and validation from _me_ as he began to weep. He was so frightened. _I_ was so frightened.

"Give me your mask, Erik," I said quietly. He always kept it on until I gave him explicit permission to remove it, even on better nights. He kept his head low, but handed the mask to me, his hair hanging down around his ruined face. His breathing was ragged now, and he gave in to the sobs that wracked his body.

"You thought you might be immortal, did you?" I asked. "And you wanted to make me immortal, too. I know you didn't want to keep doing this forever. Being in this court."

He shakes his head. "We could leave," he manages to choke out. "I could just- play music- not kill anyone… everyone I touch dies, Daroga. Everyone but you."

I took his hand, and we sat in silence for a few minutes. I watched the heave of his back as he cried, and put another hand there, on his shoulder blade, which seemed too sharp and pronounced to belong to a living body. He leaned towards me, a question rather than a demand; I shook my head.

"I want you to lie down," I told him, releasing his hand and standing up. He wouldn't look up at me, but I could see his fear in the tightening of his muscles. He was silent- waiting for me to go.

"I'm not leaving you," I sighed. "I'm moving, see? So you can lie down." I walked around the bed, to the other side, and sat down, head and shoulders propped up by my pillows. "You can come over here. Nobody saw us, in the garden- we wouldn't be here right now- I'm still here. I still want you here."

His body was almost too long for my bed, but he always curled himself up so small; he set his head on the pillows beside me, but before he settled, I reached over and guided his head to my chest. He curled up against me and tried to even out his breathing; he took one of my hands, and the other ran absently over his shoulder. He was all bone, but all of the sharp angles that made him up had become familiar. His fragility, though, would never cease to catch me off guard. Between his trembling and the thinness of his frame, he felt brittle- like I could snap his arm off of his body if I so chose.

None of it made sense. What he had done to that man- what he had done to _me-_ was reprehensible. He had been drugged, against his will- what he had done was against _both_ of our wills. Again- powerlessness.

I could feel his tears through my shirt. I can't say how long we laid in silence, his ear to my heart, before he spoke again. His voice was muffled, again- he still wasn't looking at me.

"There's very little left of me, Daroga," he murmured, and something in my chest ached. "So little left- but it's yours, you know- whoever is left. Whatever is left. They've taken so much- I think I'll die soon, Daroga. I think… that might be better. If I died here, like this. It wouldn't be fair- I shouldn't have an easy death- I don't think they'll _let_ me die easy- but they'd be rid of me, at least. They would lose a weapon. Or a toy. I'm not sure which I am anymore."

"You won't die here," I said, swallowing back a mouthful of more protests.

He turned his head just slightly, and those golden eyes regarded me for a moment before he settled back against my chest. "Pity," he whispered. "Have you ever wanted to die, Daroga?"

I balked at the unexpected question. "I… no, Erik. I've wanted to run. I've wanted to rest. But no. I don't want to die."

I could feel his muscles move, and I could swear that he was smiling against my chest, even though I couldn't see him. "Daroga. My dear Daroga. I'm glad, then. You don't deserve to die. You shouldn't want to. I've looked at your palms. You'll live a long time. I was relieved when I saw them, you know- I had just met you, I didn't know why I was so relieved. I didn't expect…" he trailed off, and all was silence again, a heavy silence full of the words neither of us would dare to say.

My hand drifted off of his shoulder, and over his ever-thinning hair; he sighed and inched even closer to me. His breathing was growing longer, more even, and eventually, I brushed the hair back from his face to see his eyes shut and his features finally relaxed in sleep. He couldn't see himself when he slept. Whenever he fell asleep before me, I found myself looking at him- his face, with all its severe planes and angles, so terrible the first time I had seen it, was impossible to describe in those rare moments of peace. Those tense muscles finally fallen slack. His thin lips just barely parted, moving air in a rhythm that was finally steady. He rarely slept so quickly; he must have been utterly exhausted. I ran my thumb gently over his eyelid, and it fluttered, but he didn't wake. His words rang in my mind- _it's myself I don't know._

I pressed my lips to the top of his head, shutting my eyes. " _I_ know you," I whispered to him, praying that somehow, his mind would bring those words into his dreams, and at least for a few moments, he would understand. A long, silent moment passed.

It was only when I was certain that he was asleep that I began to cry.


End file.
